


Nerve

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, M/M, Panic, Remorse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nerve can mean a lot of things. Jack isn’t always sure which definition applies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steadiness and Courage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mattsloved1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattsloved1/gifts).



> Thank you so much to [frederbee](http://frederbee.tumblr.com) for helping me translate Jack’s internal conversations with himself and external conversations with his father into Québécois French and for suggesting a better expression:) I am very grateful! Thanks to matttsloved1 for looking this over! (& mattie - this is your pre-birthday gift - your real birthday gift is coming!! :D)
> 
> All mistakes are my own:)
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters and some of the words and phrases belong to the wonderful [Ngozi](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com) creator of the webcomic [Check Please!](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com).

Be better. _Soit meilleur._

 

Do better. _Fais mieux._

 

_‘Promais-moi que tu vas arreter d'etre aussi difficile avec toi-meme. D'accord, Jacques?’_

_‘Oui Pa’._

 

Arriving back at the Haus before most of the team, Jack enters his room, slams the door and slumps on the bed, head in hands. The strands of thick, black hair are matted and slick; they leave an oily residue on his fingers. He’d left right after practice, rushing out before the rest of the guys, the edge of panic pressing down on his chest, not letting him breathe.

 

He shouldn’t have yelled at Bittle.

 

_‘This isn’t a joke! Either get with the program or quit!’_

 

Seeing him flat out on the ice from an easy check, a simple brushing of shoulders started the slow roll of anxiety, sharp-edged and waiting, in the pit of his stomach. Counting the days to the first game, it came at him like a babbling of noise, the sound of a crowd watching him to see not if, but when, he’ll fail.

 

It’s a little too close to home. A little too close to the truth he carries inside.

 

_It isn’t a joke._

 

Bittle would have to be benched.

 

_Get with the program._

 

Bittle should be cut from the team.

 

_Or quit._

 

Deep breath in, count to six, hold it and out again.

 

He starts naming the colours in the room.

 

He closes his eyes and recalls as many of his teachers as he can.

 

Panic stays with him, but moves over a bit and makes room for Remorse as it sits beside him, pats his hand, tells him he’s a fuck up.

 

He shouldn’t have yelled at Bittle.

 

Breathe in, hold it, breathe out.

 

Same old, same old.

 

The season is about to start, and he’s wound as tight as ever. Why didn’t Hall and Murray let Bittle go?

 

He doesn’t belong. He’s too small, vulnerable and not much bigger than the twelve-year-olds he helped coach.

 

That brings him up short.

 

Would he have yelled at a twelve-year-old? No, not if they were doing their best. Even if they were goofing around when it was serious, no he’d have taken them aside and spoken to them, firmly, kindly. It was the coach’s job to yell.

 

Bittle isn’t twelve, though, just looks it.

 

Does that matter?

 

The captain shouldn’t yell, either. A captain should bring their players along, encourage and be there for them, not scream like a petulant child.

 

Is Bittle doing his best?

 

He’s a damn fine skater. Plays the puck like no one else. In all honesty, he’s good. He just has some weird-ass mental block.

 

He has a mental block.

 

_Merde_

 

Jack tugs at his hair again.

 

Do Better. _Soit meilleur._

 

Be Better. _Fais mieux._

 

Breathe in, hold it, breathe out.

 

There’s a knock on his door. It will be Shitty. Come to see how much self-flagellation he’s doing.

 

_Get with the program or quit._

 

“Jack, my son?”

 

“Shitty.”

 

Shitty comes in and bunches up beside him, crowds his personal space in a way no one else is allowed to, shoulder to shoulder. He wears his last name beside the heart on his sleeve and helps fight Jack’s demons. Panic behaves, but Remorse just laughs and crawls up onto Jack’s lap.

 

“The fuck, man?”

 

Jack shrugs; arms lie across his knees, the weight of his upper body keep them still and prevent him from jiggling up and down. He refuses to meet Shitty’s eyes.

 

“You and I both know that Bitty’s doing his best.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You feel like shit?”

 

Jack just nods. Shitty claps him on the back and lets his arm lay across Jack’s broad shoulders. Remorse hisses a little.

 

“Yeah, not trying to make you into more of a turd than you might already be but think about how he’s feeling.” Shitty pauses. “He let something slip. In the locker room. You may want to try a different approach than yelling, brah.”

 

Jack waves his hand, “Yeah.”

 

“Okay then.” He stands to go and looks back at Jack. “You’re not a fuck up.”

 

Jack laughs a huff, low and without a trace of humour. “How do you always know?”

 

“Natch, bro. You wear it like a fucking mantle, but you ain’t gotta wear it like a hair shirt. Ease up on yourself. Ease up on Bittle. He’s like a fucking tin soldier, you know? All steady and shit.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Jack changes out of his clothes. The stink rolls off of him and the smell of his sweat soaked clothes is more than a little ripe. He tosses his clothes in the hamper and heads into the shared bathroom. The water is hot as he can get it and he lets it sluice off all the sweat and grime. He wishes it were that easy to cleanse the gunk out of his head and heart.

 

_‘Arretes de t'en mettre autant sur les epaules.’_

 

_Tu aurais fait pareil._

 

_‘Nous t'aimons.’_

_‘Je sais.’_

 

Later, after he slips clothes back on, he sorts his laundry, and the washing machine is chugging away, he scoops up the books he needs to return to the library and goes into the kitchen, because sure as hell Bittle will be there, stress baking.

 

“Set your alarm for 4 a.m. tomorrow. Meet me at Faber, full gear.”

 

Bittle doesn’t say much, just raises his eyebrows and stirs the batter in the bowl he’s holding. Jack tries not to look too closely at his face, mostly because he wants to avoid a confrontation, but there may be something there, in the shadows around Bittle’s eyes. The kid is always so upbeat and cheerful, but there is a certain wariness there, a hesitancy. Jack’s stomach rolls again. He did this, he makes Bittle afraid, cautious and that is not good. Of course, he could be wrong, he’s so fucking bad at reading people, he makes that mistake all the time, like how he never knew what Par…what others are really saying. Can’t sort it. He leaves the Haus to go the library and stays there late, so he doesn’t have to speak to Bittle until morning.

 

Sleeping isn’t easy, it never is, never was. The night folds over him, not comforting, smothering. It’s painful, and it jabs him, makes him toss and turn. He thumps his pillow, trying to relax. If only sleep wouldn’t argue and would give in, let the night ease him into sleep, not keep him raw. Insomnia rules. With a sigh, he sits up to read for a bit, something not designed to hold his interest long. And he drifts, dozes, dreams of skating, outracing the monsters behind him, who slip and slide on the ice, can’t quite reach him, until he falls, falls, falls, huddles on the ice. He’s supposed to be safe here. They reach out and…

 

The sound of the alarm wakes him with a start and finds him with the book he was reading across his chest and the bedside lamp still on.

 

Jack throws on some comfortable clothes and heads over to Faber, skate bag in hand. He thinks about his approach and decides he won’t wear his pads, so he appears less of a threat.

 

Laces tied, he skates out onto the rink. Awake, in person, one-to-one, it’s friendlier. It’s nice this early, peaceful, just him and the ice, committing to one another.

 

_‘You’re not a fuck up.’_

_I fuck up everything, Shitty._

 

Warming up, he waits.

 

Just as there is a discernable lightening in the east, Bittle comes out dressed in full gear. Jack skates over to him.

 

“Y’all ever hear of sleeping in on a Sunday?” Bittle yawns and looks up at Jack, his brown eyes, big and bleary. Jack feels something soften a bit. Standing there in the crepuscular light, Bittle looks younger than usual, so about ten. Standing in the light, Jack knows Bittle carries his own monsters, hides them with a cheerful disposition and fights them with a rolling pin. In spite of what happens to him, he keeps coming back. He shows more courage, more nerve, than ever Jack does.

 

“You were a skating champion. Surely you’ve been up at dawn before, eh?”

 

“Oh God, yes. Katya believed in the whole ‘early to bed, very early to rise’ scenario, but it’s been awhile. She used to have me doing calisthenics they used in the Soviet Gulag.”

 

Jack almost smiles. “Stand against the boards, Bittle. I’m going to push against you. I want you to brace up and skate through, yes?”

 

“I guess so.” Bittle leans into the boards, and Jack pushes against him, not hard but with some weight behind him. “Come on! Square up! Push off!”

 

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Jack backs off when he sees how panic stricken Bittle is. He recognizes the expression, has seen it many times in the mirror and his stomach turns, just a bit.

 

“Geez, are you…?”

 

“What in the deep-fried hell was that?” Bittle crouches, hunches in a ball and wipes at his face, trying not to let Jack see the tears on his cheeks, with little success.

 

“I came at you slow, and I don’t even have my pads on. Seriously Bittle. You can see the ice well, you’ve got good hands, you’re a great skater, but you’ve got this stupid mental block about getting hit. If that’s the only thing holding you back, we’re going to get you over it. Just trust me, okay?”

 

“How long are we going to keep doing this?”

 

“Until you stop being scared.” Then he laughs and almost grins. “Actually, there’s a youth tournament today, so we have to be out of here by seven.”

 

Bittle almost grins back, his face still a bit uncertain. But by the time they leave, he can push off a bit, and he isn’t shaking as hard. Jack claps him on the shoulder and sends him off to shower. “You did good, okay? Get cleaned up. I’ll take you to breakfast.”

 

“Okay, Mr. Captain Zimmermann, sir! It’d better be a big breakfast.”

 

Jack does smile this time. The roar of panic that has been following him around since Bittle first collapsed on the ice quiets down a bit.

 

Later, much later, when it’s time for bed, Jack turns off the light, rolls over into his pillow and closes his eyes. The night eases into him and this time sleep gives up without a fight.

 

In the morning he doesn’t remember what he dreamt and he spends the day without demons, without Panic and Remorse. The others, Guilt, Shame, Self-Hatred they are fairly quiet and are only faint rumblings.

 

It’s a little like having a good day.


	2. Chickadee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t really ignored this (okay, I have-I’ve just been waiting for Jack to speak to me:P). This chapter (and other chapters in this story) is out of order, chronologically speaking. It will be whatever comes to mind, I think. Chapter 2 takes place after the draft (quite a bit after) & is the first time Jack is brave enough to step on the ice. My headcanon, not canon canon. :P  
> Thanks as always for mattsloved1 having a look:D

It takes time to lace up his skates.

 

It takes far longer than it should, but Maman says nothing. She waits patiently, sitting beside him, on the bench and spends the time looking around their backyard.

 

“I wonder if I should put out another feeder? We have so many chickadees this year.” Jack can see her gentle smile out of the corner of his eye. “I love the chickadees. Such cheerful little birds. The cardinals, too. They’re so beautiful, against the snow, in amongst the birch and pine. Chickadees like to watch, take their time, but once they know you’re safe, they come right up and look at you with that sparkle in their eyes, brave and fearless. Cardinals, though, they fly off as soon as you approach. They’re too nervous and proud. And demanding! If I’m late with filling the feeders, they tap on the window.”

 

Laces done up tight, he pats them with the tip of his finger, rubs them a bit. Someone might think it’s for luck, a ritual. For him, it’s just to know they are there. He is there. He sits back and squints a bit. “Is it a metaphor?”

 

“Is what a metaphor?”

 

“The cardinals. Am I supposed to be a cardinal? I’m not a chickadee.” It’s said matter of fact, flat and toneless, but there are layers of caution and hurt.

 

Alicia looks at him and then she says. “Oh sweetie, no. Sometimes a bird is just a bird.” She leaves the bench and puts one foot on the ice. She looks back at him, sitting, uncertainty and fear on his face. Her smile is still there, always there for him, softer, warmer; she is affectionate and kind, eternally. He loves her very much but isn’t sure if he ever told her. He takes a deep breath as panic rears up out of his chest and his traitorous thoughts.

 

“Maman?”

 

“Jack? Oh, sweetie, it’s okay.” She holds out her hand to him. He takes it, and they step out onto the ice, slowly, cautiously. His stomach clenches, but he breathes deeply. _Working on that_ , he thinks. So many things he’s working on. They glide out together, and it’s okay, he can do this, the first time since, well, since before.

 

The day is beautiful, the sun peaking above the tree line, the snow glistening where it touches, the only sounds the scrape of their skates, the chatter of the birds and the wind in the branches. They blow out great puffs of smoke as they make their way around the rink.

 

Alicia laughs. If it’s tinged with worry and sadness, he doesn’t comment. He adds it to the list of things that are his fault. _No!_ He stops and shakes his head. Not his fault. He adds it to the list of things to talk about with his therapist the next time they meet.

 

Looking up, his mother waiting for him, concern on her face, but infinite patience. He braves a small lifting of the corners of his mouth. Not a full smile.

 

Skating away from Jack, Alicia glides around the rink with the grace she applies to everything she touches. He’s never had much appreciation for figure skating, but he can see that his mother is quite good. Jack skates after her, still hesitant, but he knows this, he’s known the ice his whole life, and if there is one place he can be comfortable, it has to be here. He has to forgive it, embrace it and move on. It was never the ice that was the problem.

 

The morning slips by and they sit on the bench once more, Jack unlacing his skates, slipping his boots on. He cleans the blades with a rag and puts the guards back on. Getting off of the bench, he walks over to the feeders swaying in the trees, without any intention in mind. The birds scatter at the movement, but the first one back, the first one brave enough, is a chickadee. It perches on a nearby branch, tilting its head at him, eyes bright with mischief.

 

He holds out a hand, images from younger days, when things were simpler, flit through his brain. Even though there’s no food in his hand, the bird flies to him and lands on a finger. Its weight is negligible but comforting. Puffing up its feathers, it chirps at him and flies back to the feeder, scooping a seed before disappearing. Something loosens inside his chest. Not a big something. It’s too soon for that.

 

He smiles. It feels odd, perhaps because it’s genuine for the first time in a long time.

 

Alicia, watching from the bench, tears up a little. It's not a big something. It’s too soon for that.

 

But it is a start.

**Author's Note:**

> Soit meilleur. = Be better.
> 
> Fais mieux. = Do better.
> 
> 'Promais-moi que tu vas arreter d'etre aussi difficile avec toi-meme. D'accord, Jacques?' = 'Promise me you’ll stop being so hard on yourself. Okay, Jack?'
> 
> 'Oui Pa.' = 'Okay, Dad.'
> 
> Merde = Shit
> 
> 'Arretes de t'en mettre autant sur les epaules.' = 'Stop carrying everything on your shoulders.'
> 
> Tu aurais fait pareil. = You would’ve felt the same.
> 
> 'Nous t'aimons.' = 'We love you.'
> 
> 'Je sais.' = 'I know.'


End file.
